


Staying Power

by EmAndFandems



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Getting Together, M/M, Post-Canon, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:14:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23882857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmAndFandems/pseuds/EmAndFandems
Summary: How is Aziraphale supposed to get the words out to ask Crowley not to go?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 65
Kudos: 221





	Staying Power

“I suppose you ought to be going now?” Aziraphale doesn’t mean to make a question of it but the words curl up anyway, a defensive smallness, a giveaway in the form of pulling away. The usual words he’s said so many times before no longer feel familiar. “It’s getting late.”

Crowley freezes beside him. Aziraphale cannot see his eyes but his mouth has gone totally flat and very, very still. Aziraphale didn’t realize until today that he could sense Crowley’s breathing, but even that’s paused now, waiting in this horrible hushed moment.

Aziraphale imagines all sorts of sentences Crowley might say in response to his awkward, stilted half-question. The typical, well-known excuses as Crowley gathers up his jacket and rushes out into the dimming of the evening; the careful, practiced nonchalance of maintaining it all just as it has always been. But Aziraphale imagines too the sorts of things he would like to hear, if Crowley has this same wanting in him. Sentences like  _ I’ll stay _ and  _ don’t worry, I’m here  _ and  _ I’ll get the kettle on, don't get up, angel. _ He knows better than to expect these things but the ache of longing for them doesn’t fade in the face of experience.

And still Crowley has not moved. He might be watching Aziraphale. The silence stretches a little further and it does not snap. How long can they wait? How much longer? Aziraphale looks away but the weight of hidden golden gaze sits on him anyway.

He doesn’t think about the next word. It is only because he doesn’t think about it that it manages to be spoken. “Or,” he says, very quietly, not knowing what comes next.

“Or?” breathes Crowley, and that’s enough of an encouragement for Aziraphale, for now, for a start.

“Or we could— you could— I’ll make us some tea,” he says, half-wildly, breath coming quicker despite his efforts to hold himself back. Heaven knows he has tried that long enough. “If you’d like— the tea, I mean. I do have cocoa if you prefer.”

Crowley’s nearly smiling; Aziraphale can sense it in the edges of his voice, the tiniest nuance of daring. “Tea would be good,” says Crowley, newly reanimated, extending himself once more across the sofa like he never was poised to leave. Like he’s supposed to be here. It looks so right, so natural. Aziraphale’s chest feels tight.

“Right then,” he says, standing. He clasps his hands for a few seconds, opens his mouth to say something, decides better of it and hurries to put the water on. Not too fast. Not all at once.

When the tea is ready they sit together at the table, not opposite one another but in chairs beside each other. There is a muffled sort of consciousness of what these things mean, whispering in Aziraphale’s mind, which he is working very hard to ignore. It means only as much as Crowley wants it to mean.

“Thanks for the tea,” Crowley says abruptly, and Aziraphale tries not to parse out the intricacies behind the meaning of the words. It’s basic politeness. Common courtesy. His heartbeat should not be skipping, even if he can’t recall the last time Crowley said the words, even if he’s reminded so strongly of telling Crowley not to when—

When he brought a thermos that was almost a promise, and handed it over with trembling hands, and all but spelled it out. The closest to the surface it ever came, this smothered nearly-there thing. And Crowley listened, didn’t he, hasn’t he waited? He is still waiting. Aziraphale knows this with a rush like prophecy. He sees, now, what he has to do.

Aziraphale sets a hand on Crowley’s wrist where he holds his saucer. “Crowley.”

Crowley glances at the hand, and then at Aziraphale’s face, pale and determined, and then back at the hand. “Mhm?”

“You don’t have to go.” Aziraphale takes a second to marvel at the words. Where did they come from? And yet they have a feeling on his tongue like they were always waiting, ready. “You can— stay.”

Slowly, Crowley reaches up and removes the sunglasses. Like coming undone. The inverse of a line in the sand. “You’re sure?” he murmurs, and Aziraphale’s heart cracks anew to hear the hesitation; even now, Crowley waits, serpent’s eyes fixed on him and still ready to go if he gives the word.

Aziraphale has never been sure of anything. He’s spent the entirety of eternity to this point in denial about his doubts, quashing his questions. He knew what could happen. He knew, always, the risks and the dangers on all sides; he never took a step without knowing what was on the other side. But this— this he is certain about. This is something Aziraphale could learn to become familiar with. He knows so little but at the core of him there is a need and he has a name for it at last. “Please.”

Crowley smiles and Aziraphale is so light he might be flying. “Okay,” Crowley says, “yeah. Alright.”

There is a giddiness in the room. So much has yet to be addressed but for now, it is enough for the two of them to savor the moment like sipping fresh tea. To be here. To stay.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Queen song of the same name, of course. Please leave a comment to let me know what you thought! I'd love to hear from you!


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